Hate, Despair, Tragedy Two stories of tears
by Servant of Agape
Summary: Two men, wandering the shores of Europe. One, an outcast from the society he loved. The other, the last of his kind. Both have been caught up in ate, despair and tragedy. When they meet, they both discover another story of tears.


**Yes, a crossover one-shot between my two favorite stories: the Silmarillion and Noli Me Tangere. Main characters feature Maglor and Simoun.**

**Enjoy this angsty one-shot!**

* * *

**Hate, Despair, Tragedy  
_Two stories of tears_**

A man wandered around the beach at night. He was quite young, and handsome for that matter, and had just finished his studies. One would expect him to be happy and vigorous and hopeful. He was not. In his homeland, he was formerly known as Juan Crisostomo Ibarra y Magsalin. Now, he was Simoun.

The European coast was as chilly as he remembered it. He had not expected to be back in Europe so soon. The man sighed to himself. _Why must it be like this? What have I done to deserve this?_ Greys had started to appear in his hair, and his eyes were full of tragedy and loss. _Oh, Maria Clara... _He felt tears rise at the name. He let them fall freely. There was no one watching him this time of night.

"Why do you weep?" a voice sounded to him from behind. Simoun spun around in surprise. He was sure that he was alone. He would have heard someone approach. "Why do you weep so?" the voice asked again. Simoun could see him now; a man, looking quite young and handsome, with long black hair that fell just past his shoulders, and eyes of starlight. His eyes betrayed that youthful appearance, however. They were filled with immeasurable experience, despair, longing, and sorrow that even Simoun could never hope to match.

"I weep for many things," Simoun said vaguely. "Too many."

"I as well," the man said, approaching. "What is it that you have suffered?"

"What is it to you, a European?" Simoun asked. "Why would you care for the sufferings of others not of your own country?"

"I am not from Europe," the man said sharply, his silver eyes flaring intensely for a moment before calming. "And I have seen more suffering than your mortal mind can ever dream of, so _do not question my empathy_."

Simoun looked away, and at the sea. It was different here, in Europe. He preferred the calm waters of his homeland, the Philippines. "Everything. My family, all I owned, all I had, all I hope for... the woman I loved... all taken away. Those bastard Spaniards took _everything_ from me." His fists were now clenched in anger, one that Maglor Feanorion had seen only in his father when Finwe was killed and when he swore that Oath, that dreadful Oath that no one should have ever conceived, much less taken. "What have _you _suffered?" he asked.

Maglor paused before answering. "I suffer from fate. Cruel fate that has damned me to walk the Earth with the guilt and sorrow of a thousand years for all eternity."

That last phrase caught Simoun's interest. "Who are you? You are not like any man I've ever met."

"I am the last of my people to walk Middle-Earth," Maglor said. "I am Maglor Feanorion, the last elf to walk Middle-Earth."

An elf! In his travels in Europe he had heard of these mythical people. Now he could see that they were real.

"And who are you, mortal, you who claim to have suffered?"

Simoun debated against using his real name, but decided that he was not in danger here. Who would care except the Guardia Cibil in the Philippines? But then, Ibarra was long dead. He was no longer that same idealist with high hopes for himself and his country. "Simoun."

"So, tell me, why do you shed your tears so?" Maglor asked him again.

"I was sent here to Europe to study, by my father," Simoun said. "His friend, a priest- may he rot in hell- suddenly accused him of subversion. The trial lasted for years, and, just as he was about to be acquitted, my father succumbed to tuberculosis." He felt more tears fall. "He sent me a letter, telling me not to worry if I don't hear from him. I should have known." Maglor merely nodded and let him continue. "I returned home the year after, full of hopes. Hopes to help my country. To marry the woman I loved. To live in peace. It was not to be.

"That very same priest, whom I had thought a friend of my family, moved against every plan I made. I sought to build a school for the people of my village, and he condemned it. For every move I made, he made one against it." he sighed. "I was willing to forgive him. But he slandered my father and I... I nearly killed him fir it." His voice was shakily angrily now. "I would have done so, if it weren't... if not for Maria Clara."

He paused and took a breath before continuing. "It didn't matter anyway. Because I drew a knife and threatened a priest, I was excommunicated." Maglor didn't comment, and he continued. "They arranged to have Maria married off to another man. I could do nothing, even with the excommunication lifted. Finally, I was wrongly convicted and imprisoned for leading a revolt against the colonial government. I only escaped and survived because my friend sacrificed his life for me.

"I was forced to leave my country. Maria, instead of marrying, joined the convent. It was a fate worse than death for her; to be used like that by the priests... every night of her life... I promised myself to free her when I return. I've lost my family, my friends, my home, my love, my country. My country," it seemed now that he had forgotten about Maglor, and spoke in apostrophe, "the Pearl of the Orient, your beauty has been marred by the oppression of Spain and the weakness of your people; fear not. I will return, and I will free you, so help me God!"

Now Ibarra was staring at the night sky, tears streaming down his cheeks. "You now know my story," he said softly. "You now have seen a glimpse of the evil done to my country."

Maglor remained silent for a while. "Do you hate the Spaniards?"

Ibarra looked at him. "After what they did to me- _to my country_- how can I not? What sin against the Almighty have we committed to deserve such a fate?"

Maglor paused. "I see, from what I perceive, that you have done nothing to deserve the fate handed over to you, Ibarra," he said softly. "I see now why you weep so. I now see why you are angry. You are blessed to never have deserved the fate handed over to you. I cannot say the same.

"My father... he was a great man. Mighty and the greatest of our people. We were happy with his lot... until Melkor came... he twisted us with his lies... deceived us... telling us to rebel against the Valar, making us think to be oppressed and imprisoned within a cage. We believed him, foolishly, thinking he was trustworthy. He then openly showed his colors when he killed my grandfather and stole my father's precious works.

"In his anger, my father swore, and compelled us, his sons, to do the same, to show no mercy to whosoever kept what was precious from him, and this we swore in the name of the Allfather." Maglor gazed out to see. "It was an Oath that could never be fulfilled, for there was no way in all of Arda that we could ever overcome the strength of our enemy.

"In order to pursue our treasures and fulfill our oath, three times we killed our kinsmen. The Doom of Race was proclaimed, that tears unnumbered will be shed because of our cursed Oath. We went on, heedless. And we began a war that we all regretted... our effort was doomed to fail... We had no hope of ever defeating our enemy. But when one of our allies recovered what we sought after, we demanded that they hand it over.

"They refused. After all we did to regain it, we did not deserve to possess it any longer, so when we attacked them, twice, four of my brothers, never failing, never faltering in our war against the Black Enemy, perished in their attempt to fulfil their Oath. Fate is cruel indeed. Never bothering to end us in our hopeless war against Morgoth, but only doing so when our goal is just within our reach."

Simoun had heard enough. _He's either mad, a great storyteller, or this is merely an unbelievable truth, _he thought initially until he saw his hands. Old burn scars, yet as old as they looked, it seemed that they still pained Maglor.

"Then, we finally did it. We finally overthrew the Black One, and reclaimed what was ours... but they were no longer ours. Our actions to claim them have forever denied us that right. So the jewels burned. My brother could no longer endure it and he cast himself into a pit of fire. As for myself, I cast the Jewel into the Great Sea, and forever I wander the shores.

"So you see, Simoun, the pain I suffer is no less than yours, but merely that of a different kind. While you weep because of the hurt done to you and your people, I weep out of guilt for the hurt my family has inflicted upon our kin."

Simoun remained silent. He looked at the immortal. "Do you miss your family?"

"I've never stopped," Maglor said. "Now I merely wish for death to reunite us." Ibarra could hear the despair in his voice. The immortal began to walk off. "There is nothing wrong with wanting justice. But do not let your hatred consume you, Ibarra. For only the everlasting darkness awaits those who lose themselves to hate." With that, Maglor walked off silently into the night.

Simoun stared after Maglor. _Only the everlasting darkness awaits those who lose themselves to hate. _Did the elf somehow find out his intentions? His plan of destroying his country in order to save it? Perhaps he did, but what other solution did he have? What else could he do to remove the social cancer? He sighed to himself. If indeed he must go to hell to liberate his country, then to hell he must go. His plan would bring his country down to ashes, he knew. But better to burn sooner than late, for burn we must. _We will survive the fires. I will burn Spain's corruption from my homeland and we shall be free once again. We shall prevail._

He stared off into the night, thinking it over, before he decided to return to his hotel. He had much to prepare for. The liberty of his country depended on him.


End file.
